


Bedside Manner

by aactionjohnny



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, and Sort Of tells rusty how he feels, brief mention of suicidal ideation, brock is Vague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 19:37:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16047173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: A small commission for the very sweet tumblr user ladyofdecember! Takes place in season 7 after Rusty's ill-conceived window incident.





	Bedside Manner

“Look, no one feels like a bigger idiot than me, Brock, alright?” He’s laying flat on the couch, wincing at the feeling of cold rubbing alcohol being dabbed on his many still-healing cuts. He’s insisted he can do it himself-- clean them, dress them, live with the embarrassment of it. But Brock insists, and he knows it’s not out of any sort of kindness. Rusty acts like a child, he gets treated like one. He can’t even be mad at himself for that. It’s so much easier to blame his father for trapping him in his youth.

“Good.” His voice is always gruff, but it just sounds even more harsh now, against the quiet murmur of nurses and doctors in the hallway. A man like Brock looks so out of place here, in a hospital, where wounds are meant to be healed and not caused. 

By that measure, neither of them belong here. Rusty lifts a hand to wave the alcohol swabs away, needing a break from all that stinging.

“It’s not like I was trying to _ kill  _ myself, for fuck’s sake! What’s with the silent treatment?”

He should be careful what he wishes for, as the sound of Brock’s fist driving hard into the bed rail could nearly undo all his stitches.

“Not this time, maybe. Not next time you do some-- stupid fuckin’ thing like splicing your DNA with a crocodile!” Rusty hadn’t thought of that one, but Brock hardly gives him the chance to make a note of it. “But...you will. Because you’re never satisfied, even with all this money, and…” He relents in his sternness, leaning back in his chair, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear and swiftly whipping it alight.

“Brock you can’t--”

“Shut up.” 

Rusty makes no protest. Usually he has the humor, the energy, to ask just who Brock thinks is in charge here. But he knows he hasn’t the right. Not now. Not anymore.

“...I don’t mean to make your job even harder,” he says eventually, folding his aching arms across his bandaged chest. He’s surprised to hear a deep, dull laugh from Brock.

“You really think that’s why I’m mad, Doc?” He exhales a thick cloud of smoke aimed at the ceiling. He leans back forward then, thick arms resting on his knees, and he points his cigarette at Rusty. “I’m saved your ass from every kind of monster and costumed asshole under the sun. My job doesn’t  _ get  _ any harder. It can’t...it’s already too...complicated.”

“ _ Complicated? _ ” Venture asks, wincing as he tries to sit up straighter in his bed.

Brock rubs at the bridge of his own nose, seeming exasperated.

“I _ care _ about ya, Doc. If you died they could relieve me of my position in the OSI but that wouldn’t even be the worst part.” 

He won’t lift his gaze to Rusty’s, no matter how piercing he tries to make his eyes from behind his taped-up glasses. He’s an idiot, he knows, bad at reading people, and yet still he wishes he could just look at him. Try to figure out why he sounds so sad. Even an ego the size of his own won’t let him admit the truth. That the years of protection, of fun family outings, it’s all led to something a bit deeper than an employee-boss relationship. 

“...then don’t leave us again. And I’ll have every reason to go on living,” Rusty says, just as stubborn, turning his head toward the closed curtain that surrounds his bed.

The smell of tobacco dissipates. Brock’s cigarette lays smooshed into the bedside table. Guess he doesn’t need it anymore.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Doc.” Brock sighs as he stands up, handing Rusty the rest of the gauze so he can fix himself up. “I’m going for a drink.”

“Bring me one?”

“They’ve got you on blood thinners, dumbass.” But as he hoists his bag over his broad shoulder, he leans down with a smile on his chiseled face. “When you get out. My treat.” And he presses closed lips to that scratched-up, pale, bald head before pressing the button on Rusty’s IV, certain to make sure the morphine keeps him from asking questions.

**Author's Note:**

> This was fun to write! I haven't explored this ship much at all until now. Contact me @ kiteandslots.tumblr.com for commission info!


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